In Trust: The Story of a Lady and Her Lover

by Mrs. Oliphant

Here Anne broke forth into a little laugh, which made Mr. Ashley hold out his hands in eager deprecation, ‘Oh, don’t, my darling, don’t, don’t!’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no—I will not laugh—that would be too much. Am I so dispassionate, do you think? Able to judge calmly, though the case is my own——’

‘Yes, Anne,’ cried the old Rector; his feelings were too much for him—he broke down and sobbed like a woman. ‘Yes, my beautiful Anne, my dearest child! you are capable of it—you are capable of everything that is heroic. Would I have ventured to come to you but for that? You are capable of everything, my dear.’

Anne waited a little longer, quite silently, holding her hands clasped tight. One thing she was not capable of, and that was to stand up. Whatever else she might be able to do, she could not do that. She said under her breath, ‘Wait for a moment,’ and then, when she had got command of herself, rose slowly and went to the table on which her papers were. There she hesitated, taking a letter out of the blotting-book—but after a moment’s pause brought it to him. ‘I did not think I should ever show—a letter—to a third person,’ she said with confused utterance. Then she went back to her table, and sat down and began to move with her hands among the papers, taking up one and laying down another. The Rector threw himself into the nearest chair and began to read.

‘Dear Cosmo,—You will think it strange to get a long letter from me, when we met this morning; and yet, perhaps, you will not think it strange—you will know.

‘In the first place let me say that there are a great many things which it will not be needful to put on paper, which you and I will understand without words. We understand—that things have not been lately as they were some time ago. It is nobody’s fault; things change—that is all about it. One does not always feel the same, and we must be thankful that there is no absolute necessity that we should feel the same; we have still the full freedom of our lives, both I and you.

‘This being the case, I think I should say to you that it seems to me we have made a mistake. You would naturally have a delicacy in saying it, but women have a privilege in this respect, and therefore I can take the initiative. We were too hasty, I fear; or else there were circumstances existing then which do not exist now, and which made the bond between us more practicable, more easily to be realised. This is where it fails now. It may be just the same in idea, but it has ceased to be possible to bring anything practicable out of it; the effort would involve much, more than we are willing to give, perhaps more—I speak brutally, as the French say—than it is worth.

‘In these uncertainties I put it to you whether it would not be better for us in great friendship and regret to shake hands and—part? It is not a pleasant word, but there are things which are much less pleasant than any word can be, and those we must avoid at all hazards. I do not think that your present life and my present life could amalgamate anyhow—could they? And the future is so hazy, so doubtful, with so little in it that we can rely upon—the possibilities might alter, in our favour, or against us, but no one can tell, and most probably any change would be disadvantageous. On the other hand, your life, as at present arranged, suits you very well, and my life suits me. There seems no reason why we should make ourselves uncomfortable, is there? by continuing, at the cost of much inconvenience, to contemplate changes which we do not very much desire, and which would be a very doubtful advantage if they were made.

‘This being the case—and I think, however unwilling you may be to admit it, to start with, that if you ask yourself deep down in the depths of your heart, you will find that the same doubts and questions, which have been agitating my mind, have been in yours, too—and that there is only one answer to them—don’t you think my suggestion is the best? Probably it will not be pleasant to either of us. There will be the talk and the wonderings of our friends, but what do these matter?—and what is far worse, a great crying out of our own recollections and imaginations against such a severance—but these, I feel sure, lie all on the surface, and if we are brave and decide upon it at once, will last as short a time as—most other feelings last in this world.

‘If you agree with me, send me just three words to say so—or six, or indeed any number of words—but don’t let us enter into explanations. Without anything more said, we both understand.